


Grey Days

by 9_of_Clubs



Series: In the House by the Sea [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Future Fic, Just because Hannibal deserved it doesn't mean it didn't hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 22:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1405762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal puts on a suit for the first time in a long time. It's harder for both of them than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey Days

He sits curled on the bed, watching the windows mist up with rain that obscures the ocean just beyond them; grey light filters through the room. It’s quiet now, aside from the tapping of water on glass, the sounds of the shower long died away - nothing but silence emanating from the direction of the bathroom. He doesn’t know what Hannibal is doing in there.

It’s been almost two hours since the other disappeared behind the door, a dry cleaning bag in hand. Will had thought nothing of it then. Of course Hannibal would put order and cleanliness first, wouldn't dream of stepping a foot in their new house without taking the time to put himself together. But even for Hannibal, this seems excessive. 

It’s not that Will thinks the other is in trouble, his lips curve humorlessly at the thought, that he’s being attacked by the shower curtain or anything like that, and really, what shower curtain would dare? But there’s a distinct feeling of unease that bubbles up in his stomach as time ticks by, something that rings like apprehension, that whispers in his ear that something isn’t right. Years of honed senses kicking in. But still, he hesitates, their carefully drawn lines are fragile at best. Even though he’s made his choices, his feelings for the other still oscillate more often than not, paint themselves scarlet with rage or grey with coldness on days when the memories plague him, when he’s all but ready to sign his own death certificate and run. They don’t speak about it, but Hannibal is too perceptive not to know, and he, not enough of a poker player to hide it. The emotions always die down in the end though, return him to the, more or less, even keeled realization that he’d never be able to rid himself of Hannibal, one way or the other...That despite everything, he loves him enough to stay. But they’ve been too caught up in running, in finding a way to escape the eyes that seek them, for Will to have worried about what living together, in relative peace, might actually entail, for him to remember that he’s actually kind of bad at normalcy, that he doesn’t know what exactly the right move is when faced with a closed door. 

He tries to distract himself, reaches for a book, considers the television remote, watches the trickling of water across the foggy panes, but in the end, nothing works. His eyes flit back to the door, the silence ringing too loud in his ears, and no Hannibal to put his worries to rest. Its call pulls him, pervades into his mind and doesn’t leave, forces him to his feet.

“Hannibal?” He knocks once and waits a heartbeat before pushing the door open, knocking again as he goes. The room he steps into is not actually the bathroom, but an outer room with a mirror and a sink. The air is still faintly thick though, tendrils of steam curling in from where the shower is kept, they dance slowly under the bright lights. Notes of some classical sonata or another greet him faintly.

Hannibal doesn’t seem to register that Will has entered even after the door is shut behind them. He’s freshly shaved and half dressed, the pants of a well fit suit already on his body. The rest of it draped across a chair to his right, its cut and color make Will’s breath shudder out. He hasn’t seen Hannibal in one like it for a good long time. Impractical while on the run...and before that... Three years, he realizes, three years and five months since the last time Will saw expensive fabric draping atop the other’s skin, their eyes meeting across a courtroom. 

Hannibal is standing in front of the mirror, Will’s reflection creeping into it now as well, but his eyes reflect back as though they are watching something far away, caught in a distant reverie, hearing and seeing things only real in his mind. Will thinks he understands. 

Hannibal has changed, so similar in many ways, but almost unrecognizable in others. The once muscular curves of his body have gone lax with disuse, the stagnation of his cell evident. His skin hasn’t yet lost that sallow tone of dim, electric, lights, nor has he rid himself of the gaunt shadows beneath his cheeks, the dark bags under his eyes; leftover gifts from malnutrition and tight quarters. And it’s they who are the culprits as well, in the way his ribs are closer to the surface than before. The once almost plump, well fed curve of his stomach, now flat, a shade away from starved. There are new scars there too, burrowed into Hannibal’s skin, that Will doesn’t like to think too hard about, doesn’t think Hannibal would want him to. He’s fairly sure he’d known, that he might have stopped them from being etched as permanent fixtures into Hannibal’s flesh, but he’d been in no condition to try, at that point. Only once have they spoken about it, _They were angry,_ Hannibal had murmured into his hair, _you were angry too_. And he had been, angry and broken, had deserved to be, but the half baked images his brain presents him of fingers digging too hard, straps tied too tightly, arrogant bastards taking advantage, make a whole different rage boil through his veins. But beyond all of that, past the shallow changes on Hannibal’s surface, there’s something more, something in the way Hannibal is both more savage and more fragile than when they’d first met. He’s a dangerous animal that’s been kept in a cage too long and freedom still seems nothing but a memory, though it’s in his grasp again. Even Hannibal, he decides, watching the other still in his trance, can’t find whom he was in this new outline of himself. He’d tried to seek it here, in the mirror, and failed. 

But who Hannibal was has blown away with the shades of their old lives, they can only move on. He steps forward and picks up the white shirt from the chair, reaching out a careful hand to Hannibal’s shoulder. The touch is enough to break the spell and Hannibal flinches to life, muscles going taut defensively and then relaxing again. Wordlessly, Will finds his eyes in their reflection and hands him the shirt, letting his hand slide off the other’s body. 

“I don’t believe it will look the same.” Hannibal murmurs, half to himself, half to Will, but Will answers anyway.

“No.” There’s no softness to the word, but there’s understanding. To Hannibal, putting on the suit must feel like how it felt for him to come back to Wolf Trap, as though suddenly you’re all wrong for your world, everything somehow having shrunk while you were looking the other way. In the end, he’d left that house, but he fought his battle alone. It had been Hannibal who’d put him through that, Hannibal that had dismantled that part of his understanding of home, but it’s here with him now, that he’s working on a new one. “But if you don’t put it on.” He threatens, a crooked smile curving along his face. “I’ll get you one of mine.” 

In answer, the shirt goes on. Will watches it settle across broad shoulders and then curves around to pull at the buttons before Hannibal can reach them. He does them up slowly, his fingers running up Hannibal’s chest and then down again to tuck the hem carefully into the other’s pants. He can feel Hannibal’s gaze on him, unreadable weight to his expression, but there are no protests, so he reaches for the tie as well, slinging it along Hannibal’s neck. A moment’s pause, then he wraps their fingers with Hannibal’s and guides the other’s hand up to the fabric. No matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to make the knot right enough, he knows that much, and this needs to be _right_. Hannibal huffs a laugh and lets his hands touch the tie, almost reverently, eyes closing momentarily as the silk meets the callouses of his skin. For a moment, Will thinks he’s lost him to whirling thoughts again, but then they’re looking at each other and the tie is being tied. Hannibal’s gaze is not on himself, but on Will. There’s a glint of something like a scream hidden in the depths, crackling embers of anger, but Will doesn’t acknowledge it, nor does he look away. Instead, he picks up the jacket and slides it up onto Hannibal’s shoulders, lets the last piece slide into place. 

The armor of the suit covers a lot of the cracks, Will has to admit. It’s not perfect, still feels as though Hannibal is dressed in clothes a size too big for him, while at the same time the suit barely seems to contain him at all. He’s shadowed somehow, doesn’t wear it as seamlessly as he once did, but it makes the corners of Will’s mouth quirk all the same.

“Hello Doctor Lecter.” His eyes are laughing now as he bows his head in Hannibal’s direction. 

Hannibal hesitates for long moment, stands there considering something that he doesn’t share, and then smiles himself, a small twist of thin lips. “Hello Will.” 

Will finds his wrist and pulls him towards the door, out of the strangely, surreal, steamy air. Maybe they’ll have to do this song and dance again, maybe they’ll have to do it forever, or perhaps tomorrow Hannibal will wake up and the scars will have become unnoticeable. Either way, they’ll be what they’ll be and they won’t look back.

.


End file.
